The shift didn't feel dramatic.
That was what made it unsettling.
No one confronted him. No one accused him of anything. No emails with sharp wording. No tense meetings where voices were raised.
Just… space.
More of it than there had been before.
Conversations that used to happen around him now happened slightly away from him.
Invitations that had once been automatic now came with a pause — sometimes they didn't come at all.
Not punishment.
Adjustment.
People were recalibrating.
And he was part of the variable.
The first thing he noticed was how quiet his desk had become.
Not silent.
Just… less interrupted.
No one stopped by casually anymore. No one leaned against the corner to ask something half-formed. The constant low-level hum of interaction had faded.
That should have felt like relief.
It didn't.
It felt like being gently moved to the edge of a circle without anyone ever touching you.
At lunch, he stood with his tray and scanned the room.
Groups had formed the way they always did — people sitting in familiar clusters, leaning toward each other, sharing small bits of the day.
There was space at a few tables.
But not invitation.
He chose an empty seat near the window.
No one joined him.
Not pointedly.
Just naturally.
The record stayed quiet.
That made it worse.
If this was feedback, it wasn't the kind that came with a clear label.
In the afternoon, his manager passed by his desk without stopping.
That was new.
She usually did.
Just a nod this time.
Polite.
Neutral.
Later, he was left out of a discussion he normally would have been part of — not intentionally, not maliciously, but because no one thought to include him.
The assumption had shifted.
He wasn't central anymore.
He wasn't peripheral either.
He was… optional.
On the way home, he felt tired in a way that wasn't physical.
The city felt farther away than usual, sounds slightly muffled, lights a little too bright.
He wondered how many people experienced this kind of quiet loss and never named it.
At home, the apartment felt larger than it had before.
Not emptier.
Just less filled.
He cooked, ate, and cleaned up in silence.
The record did not speak.
That night, lying in bed, he waited for it.
A label. A confirmation. A reason.
Nothing came.
And that was the hardest part.
Because without a name, he couldn't tell himself it was temporary.
Just before sleep, a single new line appeared.
Social engagement decreased.
He swallowed.
"So that's what this feels like," he whispered.
Not rejection.
Not exile.
Just a quiet step backward in other people's priorities.
The record didn't judge it.
It didn't soften it.
It just noticed.
He stared at the ceiling and let the truth settle.
Clarity had a cost.
And this was one of them.